


And I Must See

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage, Dark, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Marking, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:56:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's good that Rodney knows, John thinks, letting his head down again,shivering as Rodney runs the back of his nails up and down John's neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written immediately after reading [torch's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/torch/) [plaything verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/7232), no disrespect intended to her 'verse. I just lovelovelove this kink ;)

I really do want to write a stream-of-consciousness pet!John where he's not quite drugged, but he's not quite in control and he'll kneel at Rodney's feet, because Rodney's hand is heavy on his shoulder and it's so easy, so good to just fold himself down and rest his cheek on Rodney's leg. And Rodney's fingers, so big and blunt most of the time, turn into delicate instruments when he's working with wires or machines or whatever else he tinkers with, and apparently now that means John because he's weaving patterns onto John's scalp with his nails, shadowed tracery that burns down past bone to write itself with deep furrows and loops directly on John's mind. It's good, it's so good, to let Rodney pet him, John's body loose and relaxed because this is what Rodney wants so this is what John will be for him.

He knows there are voices around him, people milling together and talking with the artificial gaiety of an assigned function, the kind of thing people can't get out of. It's lacking the crisp stiffness of military personnel uncomfortably decked out, but John's still aware that there's military around. It's a sense, now, a hint that says _yes, him, he's a soldier, he's like you_ , even if they aren't like him, not like him at all.

Something cool is pressed against his mouth and John tips his head back, neck cradled in Rodney's palm, accepting liquid that slides like silk right past his tongue and down his throat. It goes too fast for him to taste it, residue sticky and strange as he licks his lips and presses a kiss to Rodney's knuckle, thanking him for the treat. It _is_ a treat, John knows, because normally he drinks water -- only water, always water, because anything else might be dangerous, different, and new and wrong, or something that eats inside of him until only Rodney's shouting can bring him back, shove him down until he's as broken outside as he is in.

A sudden burst of cool air makes John tip his face up, letting Rodney's nails bite into his skin, working muscles and tendons as John lets the air rush past him, not fast enough, but still faster than the stultifying air that clouds the room. "Yes, yes," Rodney says absently, his thumb brushing the edge of his hair. "I know."

It's good that Rodney knows, John thinks, letting his head down again, shivering as Rodney runs the back of his nails up and down John's neck. This is a game, a tease, a way of proving to the not-soldiers and diplomats and whoever else is floating through the room that Rodney is who he claims to be, who he always is, even when John isn't wearing his mark against his chest, kneeling at his feet.

That these people -- Monarins? -- don't see him without the trappings is their loss. Regimented, restricted ways of seeing that will get them dead one day, cities crumbling into smoking ruin, because _is_ should be more important than _seen as._

Not that John's really complaining, though. He likes this, being so easy and loose, filling up all the places in his skin, the ones he hides, broken down into boxes he can push under mental beds, locking everything down so perfectly. Rodney hates when he does that, railing and battering at his training, his history, his view of the world, and John lets him because he knows it makes Rodney feel better to fuss and pick and worry. He's like a housewife, a fisherwoman, and John tucks his smile into Rodney's knee, kissing the wisps of hair that poke free of the fine, delicate fabric he's wearing.

Rodney looks good in red. As good as John in his black, and he knows they're striking. He remembers the look everyone wore as they left Atlantis, drifting past shimmering, shining blue to enter a world of greens and reds and browns, earthen and rich after Atlantis' murky waters. 

A shift has John sitting up, looking around for the small, golden children that carry platters of food and drink. Rodney's hungry, he knows, and he is too, hasn't had anything but what Rodney's given him since they arrived, and Rodney's been too nervous to eat let alone remember to give John tidbits. His mouth is still sticky.

A boy sees him, gliding over like he's got no legs at all but fins, cutting through the air current, and for a moment John is consumed with jealousy. That's what he wants, what he's always wanted, that graceful, swooping curve, playing with thermals and cold-spots the way dolphins leap through glittering waves, the way birds fly so high the air grows thin in their throats, until the sky is all there is around them. He _wants_ this, so much, and almost he reaches a hand out to take what he can't have, what isn't real but _should be._

Rodney threads his fingers into John's, tugging him back against the bent L of his leg. "I know," Rodney soothes, and it is soothing, understanding. Rodney doesn't see air currents and invisible wings, but he does see numbers, curving over columns to give them support, the cosmos broken down into ones and zeros he can figure out, understanding as perfect as a cut diamond, glittering and cold and sharp if you hold it wrong. Rodney knows that, is that, so his hand is gentle as he pets John's head, humming something absent minded and familiar as John sinks back against him, letting the warmth burn away the longing. 

Rodney is worth being grounded at least some of the time, anyway.

"Is he not the military commander?" a stilted voice asks, the words wobbling as if they come through jello.

"When I let him," Rodney answers, the curling, possessive pleasures enough to make John shudder and swallow back his moans. Rodney is blunt and sarcastic and egotistical, but he is also sensual and generous and egotistical.

Abruptly, John doesn't want to be here anymore, lifting drinks from a silvered tray, holding it up for Rodney while another boy presents snacks John tastes before allowing Rodney his bounty. He does it, he will do it, because the Monarians need to see, and John needs to do this, to allow himself to be used and treated like this, because it's so _different,_ antithetical, and so perfect it makes him ache inside.

Rodney eats, and lets John eat, and he doesn't make noises as he chews and swallows, doesn't importune their hosts for recipes or trade agreements, and that's how John knows that Rodney feels it too. Especially when the stiffness bleeds out, alcohol swimming into place instead, both of them trapped there, uncomfortable and awkward as clothing is loosened and the soldiers become men and women, people who laugh more genuinely, desire behind their touches.

Rodney touches him while the others do, palm heavy against John's chest where his tags aren't, where Rodney's _is_. It's still metal, still warm from his body-heat, familiar and reassuring, but it doesn't say Sheppard, John, United States Air Force, a string of numbers like a bar code. It just says _John_ , and a symbol John sees in his sleep etched into metal with acid, beautiful and swooping, and scalding whenever John thinks about it.

"And the trade agreement?" There's impatience in the other's voice, a desire to give in, lean away, find a body as pliant as John's, one who'll twist and turn under his hands like he does for Rodney's, exposing himself for whatever touch Rodney wants to bestow. John knows he's being watched, a commander, strong and silent and menacing when he was here before, now making soft sounds as the silk over his hip is rubbed, arching back in a move that is all Teyla's, exposing nipple to knee for all he's still fully clothed, allowing Rodney to touch him, palm him, cup him, _show_ him off, taunt them with things that they'll never, ever have, because Rodney is generous only on his terms, and no one else’s.

John is comfortable with that, even as the blood rushes to his head.

"Down." Rodney's voice, echoing through John's skull, and he seats himself back on his knees, weight on his heels, cuddled up like the cat Rodney sometimes talks about, warm and loose and protecting for all they never see the danger John's learned how to hide. It's the perfect ruse, even with John as distracted as he is now, not quite lucid, but definitely in control, _letting_ himself be petted, tucked between Rodney's legs so his cheek rests on cock, not knee, and it's hard, and ready and he wants to _leave._

"Perhaps?" A woman's voice, different than the women John knows who never speak with such smug hunger, not even the scientists who sound more and more like Rodney every day. John doesn't need to open his eyes to see too many jewels, makeup thick and plastic against skin. Different countries, different planets, galaxies, some things remain the same and John knows this nameless, faceless woman, knows what she wants and what she'll try to take. 

John gasps as Rodney's fingers, hot like candles against his skin, push and twist him until they're running along the curve of his ass, protected by black silk but certainly not hidden. John moans, can't help it, doesn't try to fight it, arching up and into the touch, letting everyone see how Rodney moves him, uses whatever charms he has to offer, and oh, god, whatever Carson made, John knows he could become addicted to this, to the way he needs Rodney to find the shadows and touch him there, to push and press and take --

But he isn't, he's just following the curve, up and back again, murmuring something about 'perfect' and 'bubble' and it doesn't make any sense, doesn't mesh with the images that flicker behind John's eyes, but that's okay, too. Because the lady with the greedy, desperate voice is moving away, because _Rodney_ is moving, and so too is John, almost drunkenly crawling until a sharp word from Rodney gets him on his feet, hips swinging, eyes kohl-heavy, as he doesn't smirk his pleasure to the watching eyes. Everyone wants him, he knows, black-clad and beautiful because even Elizabeth said he was, and she hates to call him beautiful, even when she means it. John wishes she were here, because she loves this kind of thing, the intrigue and dresses, the elegantly coiffed 'dos, the grace of royalty as she surveys everyone who would request audience.

She isn't here, though, it's too dangerous, no matter how many times Lorne promises he won't let her out of his sight. John likes that, likes his second in command knowing his priorities because they aren't John's, can't be John's, not when Rodney's leading him down hallways that get cooler and darker with every new turn, gently letting him fall onto a bed that molds to John's body like water, accepting and shifting without losing integrity.

Rodney hums, soft and amused as he pushes John's shirt up, mouthing hot kisses in a circle, surrounding the metal that's cold, so cold now, without his shirt to keep the warmth in. He gasps, shivering, and that makes Rodney's eyes sparkle, brilliant and perfect and John wants to kiss him there.

"No, you don't," Rodney says. John pouts -- kisses! -- but then he gasps, head thudding back because there are fingers inside him. He doesn't know when his pants disappeared, puddled cool and smooth against one ankle, and doesn't care. One leg is up, opening himself while Rodney smooths something that smells sharp and clean and earthy against his skin, cool where he's so hot, so ready, tightening himself because he has to have more, can't let Rodney slip out, leaving him so empty.

There's a shift, the world spinning as John is moved towards pillows, body presented and displayed so Rodney can finger him wide and ready, John eagerly announcing this over and over, because Rodney isn't stopping. Instead he's murmuring _like a stupid museum picture_ which sounds rough and denigrating; John knows it is really full of an awe he can't explain but accepts because he feels it too. He spreads his legs wide, trying to show Rodney how ready, how much he wants, now, yes, now, please, won't beg, can't, but oh, oh, please --

Rodney shushes him, chuckling. "We never get a chance to play," he says, the curve of his smile flicking on things inside of John, the way he lights up Atlantis. "I want to play, tonight. You know they won't disturb us."

John doesn't, a tiny corner of his mind watching for that just in case, but Rodney _does_ and John believes, he wants everything Rodney gives him, but he still cries out, shocked and loud because Rodney's tongue is there, pressing along herb-slicked skin, sliding inside of him, gliding over nerves that spark and flare in Rodney's wake. He arches, pushing himself towards Rodney's wide, wide mouth, and Rodney hums through every dip and swirl, fingers branding John's body.

He whites out at some point. He knows he can't come like this, doesn't want to without Rodney's voice, but it's too much, too strong, and when he comes back, he's curled into Rodney's lap, panting harshly while Rodney finger-combs his hair.

"What do you want?" Rodney asks.

_You_ John wants to say, but he has that, that's already his to take and keep and cherish, barely-remembered vows he never thought to say suddenly crowding in his mind. "Tell me what to do," he says instead, because it's easier, more fun, and Rodney likes giving the orders for once.

"No," is the unexpected response, head shaking slowly back and forth. "What do _you_ want. Tell me."

John's mouth opens before he knows what he wants to say, but that's all right, it's perfect because the words are there before he knows it. "Your cock," he says, lipping over skin that is still so terribly soft, letting his tongue catch the curled foreskin. "Suck you," he says, because he knows Rodney likes those words better.

"Mm. Oh, yes," Rodney says, happy and excited, so John shifts until he can crane his neck just the right amount, mouth already heavy with wet, because he loves this. _Loves_ this, this thing he'd never done before Rodney, never known he'd enjoy, the weight against his tongue, the salt-bitter taste that reminds him of the air at thirty thousand feet, the way Rodney goes still and silent, watching as he lets John suck, or lets John be fucked, lips stretched wet and wide while Rodney takes. Either way is good, but John knows tonight will be about him, his control, so he concentrates on the movements of his tongue, finding veins and edges to lick, a flutter that Rodney's eyes echo, almost rolling back in pleasure.

His jaw aches and his body feels stiff and sore, but Rodney hasn't come yet, so John doesn't stop, doesn't want to, just keeps sucking on his cock, hands curled into Rodney's thigh, his waist, clinging because that's all John knows how to do.

"Okay," Rodney says, the snap swallowed up by the quaver. John smiles around his mouthful but obediently slips off, tonguing the head because he knows what that does to Rodney, _knows_ it, and he wants this, has wanted it from the moment Carson came to him, shifty-eyed and nervous, explaining the properties of the drug he'd synthesized, alike but not alike from the Monarian's initial 'gift'. He always wants this, the slow burn, the deep, filling push as gravity and Rodney's powerful hips move in tandem, pinning him, moving him, because when Rodney moves, so does John, swaying against a gale that's all inside, his own cock red and ready and flat against his belly.

Rodney nods and it's like the clang at the gates, John's body shifting into alignment without conscious thought. He moves, because he wants the hot friction that burns inside him, the smug satisfaction of controlling when and how his own prostate is pressed, once but not twice, because he likes denying himself this, letting the stretch be all he needs, the gasping and choked-off moans pleasure enough.

He rocks, pushing himself down until Rodney makes a strangled noise, heat and wet filling him up, inside of him, all over, and over and -- 

When he comes to, his cock is spent and Rodney has his ass high in the air, fingers working restlessly in and out, a thumb rubbing hard directly behind his balls. "Awake again? Good. There's this thing I wanted to try."

John can only moan.

The positions are fluid, interchanging from one moment until the next. The only constant is the burn of exhaustion that grows steadily larger and the numbing pleasure of seeing or hearing or feeling Rodney come. 

"Knees," Rodney will say, and John will slip off the bed, already rubbing his stubble against Rodney's thighs, because he likes that, they like that, and John loves the sounds Rodney makes.

"Give," Rodney will demand and John will stretch himself across the bed, wantonly accepting whatever Rodney bestows with fingers and lips and tongue.

"Yes," Rodney will sigh, and John will remove any evidence with his tongue, the only release he needs.

Not the only one he's given, though.

When morning finally breaks, John is still dazed, still lost, but less than before, curled up around Rodney's body. He dreads the morning -- dreads _moving_ \-- but he does, cracking and stretching until he's certain he can function, then more gently inducing the same in Rodney.

Rodney whimpers when his back is cracked. Every. Time.

He sleep-walks through more meetings, comfortably wound around Rodney's feet, and it takes another comment for him to remember that he has to walk through the 'gate, heels firmly pressed down, Rodney's touch nowhere on his person. He hates it, but he does it, head held high because Rodney always snickers when he lowers it, amusement covering a quaking uncertainty John knows how to soothe. He soothes it now, plays the role, assures Elizabeth that all is well, no harm has come to anyone. 

Ronon's smirk is pronounced, but only those who known him will understand it. Teyla wears her amusement more regally, deftly allowing Elizabeth to see that this briefing is unneeded and unwanted, and that Carson will not be visited for some time, yet.

"Rodney -- "

"He's _fine_ , Elizabeth. We both are, I promise. Yes, I understand how disconcerting this is, but there's only a few hours left before it wears off -- "

"Rodney, did you _dose him again?"_

"I had to! There were people watching and John doesn't like that." Rodney's hand is heavy against his back, curling into muscle that slumps and yields for him. "It makes him uncomfortable, you know that!"

"I do -- no, all right." Teyla must have done something, for all she is motionless in her approval. Elizabeth sounds resigned, but not weary, not broken. John likes that. "I wasn't there, I can't judge. Everything seems to be fine, at least and ..."

Her voice trails off, which is good, John thinks, as he sprawls in a slightly different shape against Rodney's leg. He knows the others are watching him, wide-eyed and probably disturbed, but Rodney's found the _perfect_ place to scratch, absentmindedly running his nails over and over a bit of skin, and John is like every other creature when it comes to this, totally lost to the pleasure of an itch scratched.

"I think it would be wise if you returned to your quarters, Doctor McKay," Teyla says, laughter like apples through her voice. "And perhaps bring Colonel Sheppard with you."

"Finally," Rodney grumbles, but John can hear the smile, the pleasure as he stands, John standing too, and his hand doesn't lift itself from the small of John's back. It stays there, broad and solid and warm through the silk, guiding John down hallways he knows better than his own skin, because it's easier to lean back and trust, to let Rodney have this, his hand sliding up over John's shoulder to press just enough.

Behind closed doors, John sinks down onto knees that ache just right, Rodney's fingers curled around his neck leaving marks no one will ever see, ever know about, but the two of them.


	2. Chapter 2

Yeah, Elizabeth isn't happy, but she knows John is okay so ... her credibility really ends there, doesn't it? She can't order him not to, not when it helps, and Rodney _isn't_ gloating, which tells her just how much this a them-thing instead of a Rodney-thing.

Also, John is _so_ pretty like that. 

Afterward, Teyla and Elizabeth retire to Elizabeth's rooms, like they always do, to talk and discuss what's happened except this time Elizabeth doesn't want to talk, she wants to do something to ease the ache between her legs. When Teyla stops in the middle of the room, eyes doe-bright and liquid, Elizabeth's breath stutters in her chest and her nipples grow tight because while they've played before,this is different. This is raw and real and affected by John's languid pleasure because it's so different from his normal, and like always they're are spheres to John's world, affected and reflective of his moods and whims.

Teyla's fingers are strong and agile as they work inside of her, and Elizabeth sighs around the tongue she sucks,the one that fucks her mouth to some primal rhythm she knows but cannot count the beats to. She wonders, distantly, with the parts of her that are not naked but for sweat, languid and scalding as Teyla wrings yet another orgasm from her, what John and Rodney are doing right at that moment. If Rodney brings John's face between his legs the way Teyla does not with her, if John loves the taste and feel of it as Elizabeth does. She wonders, too, if Carson has found someone to gain relief with, if Cadman will push him onto the bed and punish him with her hips and thighs, or if it will be Ronon who takes what the doctor has to offer, allowing that exciting brogue to buzz up and down the length of Ronon's cock.

She wonders if Rodney will pet John's head and neck, cooing and praising him with that mix of abuse and endearment, the way Teyla calls her good and sweet, even as she comes onto Elizabeth's tongue.

She hopes he does. She's fairly certain, regardless,because she remembers the look in Rodney's eyes when he first saw John, pliant and compliant, curling around Rodney's feet, hands big and needy as they ran up and down Rodney's leg, seeking the kind of touch a public place forbid. The lust in bright blue eyes is expected, the awe and possessive pride, greedy and hungry, is not a surprise. But the worry, the nervousness that has nothing to do with performance and everything to do with boundaries Rodney is afraid to cross -- that makes her certain Rodney will be gentle, even as he presses himself deep into John's mouth.

"Elizabeth? I do not know if you've noticed, but Major Lorne has been... quite attentive of you, lately."

She can't speak like this, just moans into Teyla's flesh. It's answer enough.

"I believe I would like to see him fuck you. Shall I call him? He is off duty for another hour."

Elizabeth comes from the words alone, and knows that all of them are in very good hands, indeed.


End file.
